Life Is Too Short For Mean Anxieties.

Three Fishers Went Sailing Away To The West, Away To The West As The Sun Went Down; Each Thought On The Woman Who Loved Him The Best, And The Children Stood Watching Them Out Of The Town.

Never Trample On Any Soul Though It May Be Lying In The Veriest Mire; For That Last Spark Of Self-respect Is Its Only Hope, Its Only Chance; The Last Seed Of A New And Better Life: The Voice Of God That Whispers To It: "you Are Not What You Ought To Be, And You Are Not What You Can Be. You Are Still God's Child, Still An Immortal Soul. You May Rise Yet. And Fight A Good Fight Yet, And Be A Man Once More, After The Likeness Of God Who Made You, And Christ Who Died For You!

[at The End Of The Story, Its Main Character, Tom] Is Now A Great Man Of Science, And Can Plan Railroads, And Steam-engines, And Electric Telegraphs, And Rifled Guns, And So Forth; And Knows Everything About Everything, Except Why A Hen's Egg Don't Turn Into A Crocodile, And Two Or Three Other Little Things That No One Will Know Till The Coming Of The Cocqcigrues.

Nothing That Man Ever Invents Will Absolve Him From The Universal Necessity Of Being Good As God Is Good, Righteous As God Is Righteous, And Holy As God Is Holy.

If "ifs" And "ands" Were Pots And Pans, There'd Be No Work For Tinkers' Hands